Etext of After the Storm by T S Arthur

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Title: After the Storm

Author: T. S. Arthur

Posting Date: August 14, 2009 [EBook #4590]
Release Date: October, 2003
First Posted: March 13, 2002

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AFTER THE STORM ***

Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.

AFTER THE STORM.

BY

T. S. ARTHUR.

PHILADELPHIA:

1868

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS.
CHAPTER II. THE LOVERS.
CHAPTER III. THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN.
CHAPTER IV. UNDER THE CLOUD.
CHAPTER V. THE BURSTING OF THE STORM.
CHAPTER VI. AFTER THE STORM.
CHAPTER VII. THE LETTER.
CHAPTER VIII. THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN.
CHAPTER IX. THE RECONCILIATION.
CHAPTER X. AFTER THE STORM.
CHAPTER XI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
CHAPTER XII. IN BONDS.
CHAPTER XIII. THE REFORMERS.
CHAPTER XIV. A STARTLING EXPERIENCE.

CHAPTER XV. CAPTIVATED AGAIN.
CHAPTER XVI. WEARY OF CONSTRAINT.
CHAPTER XVII. GONE FOR EVER!
CHAPTER XVIII. YOUNG, BUT WISE.
CHAPTER XIX. THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE.
CHAPTER XX. THE PALSIED HEART.
CHAPTER XXI. THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE.
CHAPTER XXII. STRUCK DOWN.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE HAUNTED VISION.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE MINISTERING ANGEL.
CHAPTER XXV. BORN FOR EACH OTHER.
CHAPTER XXVI. LOVE NEVER DIES.
CHAPTER XXVII. EFFECTS OF THE STORM.
CHAPTER XXVIII. AFTER THE STORM.

AFTER THE STORM.

CHAPTER I.

THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS.

NO June day ever opened with a fairer promise. Not a single cloud flecked the sky, and the sun coursed onward

through the azure sea until past meridian, without throwing to the earth a single shadow. Then, low in the west,
appeared something obscure and hazy, blending the hill-tops with the horizon; an hour later, and three or four small
fleecy islands were seen, clearly outlined in the airy ocean, and slowly ascending—avant-couriers of a coming storm.
Following these were mountain peaks, snow-capped and craggy, with desolate valleys between. Then, over all this
arctic panorama, fell a sudden shadow. The white tops of the cloudy hills lost their clear, gleaming outlines and their
slumbrous stillness. The atmosphere was in motion, and a white scud began to drive across the heavy, dark masses of
clouds that lay far back against the sky in mountain-like repose.

How grandly now began the onward march of the tempest, which had already invaded the sun's domain and

shrouded his face in the smoke of approaching battle. Dark and heavy it lay along more than half the visible horizon,
while its crown invaded the zenith.

As yet, all was silence and portentous gloom. Nature seemed to pause and hold her breath in dread anticipation.

Then came a muffled, jarring sound, as of far distant artillery, which died away into an oppressive stillness. Suddenly
from zenith to horizon the cloud was cut by a fiery stroke, an instant visible. Following this, a heavy thunder-peal shook
the solid earth, and rattled in booming echoes along the hillsides and amid the cloudy caverns above.

At last the storm came down on the wind's strong pinions, swooping fiercely to the earth, like an eagle to its prey.

For one wild hour it raged as if the angel of destruction were abroad.

At the window of a house standing picturesquely among the Hudson Highlands, and looking down upon the river,

stood a maiden and her lover, gazing upon this wild war among the elements. Fear had pressed her closely to his side,
and he had drawn an arm around her in assurance of safety.

Suddenly the maiden clasped her hands over her face, cried out and shuddered. The lightning had shivered a tree

upon which her gaze was fixed, rending it as she could have rent a willow wand.

"God is in the storm," said the lover, bending to her ear. He spoke reverently and in a voice that had in it no tremor

of fear.

The maiden withdrew her hands from before her shut eyes, and looking up into his face, answered in a voice which

she strove to make steady:

"Thank you, Hartley, for the words. Yes, God is present in the storm, as in the sunshine."

"Look!" exclaimed the young man, suddenly, pointing to the river. A boat had just come in sight. It contained a man

and a woman. The former was striving with a pair of oars to keep the boat right in the eye of the wind; but while the
maiden and her lover still gazed at them, a wild gust swept down upon the water and drove their frail bark under. There

was no hope in their case; the floods had swallowed them, and would not give up their living prey.

A moment afterward, and an elm, whose great arms had for nearly a century spread themselves out in the sunshine

tranquilly or battled with the storms, fell crashing against the house, shaking it to the very foundations.

The maiden drew back from the window, overcome with terror. These shocks were too much for her nerves. But

her lover restrained her, saying, with a covert chiding in his voice,

"Stay, Irene! There is a wild delight in all this, and are you not brave enough to share it with me?"

But she struggled to release herself from his arm, replying with a shade of impatience—

"Let me go, Hartley! Let me go!"

The flexed arm was instantly relaxed, and the maiden was free. She went back, hastily, from the window, and,

sitting down on a sofa, buried her face in her hands. The young man did not follow her, but remained standing by the
window, gazing out upon Nature in her strong convulsion. It may, however, be doubted whether his mind took note of
the wild images that were pictured in his eyes. A cloud was in the horizon of his mind, dimming its heavenly azure. And
the maiden's sky was shadowed also.

For two or three minutes the young man stood by the window, looking out at the writhing trees and the rain pouring

down an avalanche of water, and then, with a movement that indicated a struggle and a conquest, turned and walked
toward the sofa on which the maiden still sat with her face hidden from view. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand.
It lay passive in his. He pressed it gently; but she gave back no returning pressure. There came a sharp, quick gleam of
lightning, followed by a crash that jarred the house. But Irene did not start—we may question whether she even saw the
one or heard the other, except as something remote.

"Irene!"

She did not stir.

The young man leaned closer, and said, in a tender voice—

"Irene—darling—"

Her hand moved in his—just moved—but did not return the pressure of his own.

"Irene." And now his arm stole around her. She yielded, and, turning, laid her head upon his shoulder.

There had been a little storm in the maiden's heart, consequent upon the slight restraint ventured on by her lover

when she drew back from the window; and it was only now subsiding.

"I did not mean to offend you," said the young man, penitently.

"Who said that I was offended?" She looked up, with a smile that only half obliterated the shadow. "I was

frightened, Hartley. It is a fearful storm!" And she glanced toward the window.

The lover accepted this affirmation, though he knew better in his heart. He knew that his slight attempt at constraint

had chafed her naturally impatient spirit, and that it had taken her some time to regain her lost self-control.

Without, the wild rush of winds was subsiding, the lightning gleamed out less frequently, and the thunder rolled at a

farther distance. Then came that deep stillness of nature which follows in the wake of the tempest, and in its hush the
lovers stood again at the window, looking out upon the wrecks that were strewn in its path. They were silent, for on
both hearts was a shadow, which had not rested there when they first stood by the window, although the sky was then
more deeply veiled. So slight was the cause on which these shadows depended that memory scarcely retained its
impression. He was tender, and she was yielding; and each tried to atone by loving acts for a moment of willfulness.

The sun went down while yet the skirts of the storm were spread over the western sky, and without a single glance

at the ruins which lightning, wind and rain had scattered over the earth's fair surface. But he arose gloriously in the
coming morning, and went upward in his strength, consuming the vapors at a breath, and drinking up every bright
dewdrop that welcomed him with a quiver of joy. The branches shook themselves in the gentle breezes his presence
had called forth to dally amid their foliage and sport with the flowers; and every green thing put on a fresher beauty in
delight at his return; while from the bosom of the trees—from hedgerow and from meadow—went up the melody of
birds.

In the brightness of this morning, the lovers went out to look at the storm-wrecks that lay scattered around. Here a

tree had been twisted off where the tough wood measured by feet instead of inches; there stood the white and shivered
trunk of another sylvan lord, blasted in an instant by a lightning stroke; and there lay, prone upon the ground, giant
limbs, which, but the day before, spread themselves abroad in proud defiance of the storm. Vines were torn from their

fastenings; flower-beds destroyed; choice shrubbery, tended with care for years, shorn of its beauty. Even the solid
earth had been invaded by floods of water, which ploughed deep furrows along its surface. And, saddest of all, two
human lives had gone out while the mad tempest raged in uncontrollable fury.

As the lover and maiden stood looking at the signs of violence so thickly scattered around, the former said, in a

cheerful tone—

"For all his wild, desolating power, the tempest is vassal to the sun and dew. He may spread his sad trophies

around in brief, blind rage; but they soon obliterate all traces of his path, and make beautiful what he has scarred with
wounds or disfigured by the tramp of his iron heel."

"Not so, my children," said the calm voice of the maiden's father, to whose ears the remark had come. "Not so, my

children. The sun and dew never fully restore what the storm has broken and trampled upon. They may hide disfiguring
marks, and cover with new forms of life and beauty the ruins which time can never restore. This is something, and we
may take the blessing thankfully, and try to forget what is lost, or so changed as to be no longer desirable. Look at this
fallen and shattered elm, my children. Is there any hope for that in the dew, the rain and sunshine? Can these build it up
again, and spread out its arms as of old, bringing back to me, as it has done daily, the image of my early years? No, my
children. After every storm are ruins which can never be repaired. Is it not so with that lightning-stricken oak? And what
art can restore to its exquisite loveliness this statue of Hope, thrown down by the ruthless hand of the unsparing
tempest? Moreover, is there human vitality in the sunshine and fructifying dew? Can they put life into the dead?

"No—no—my children. And take the lesson to heart. Outward tempests but typify and represent the fiercer

tempests that too often desolate the human soul. In either case something is lost that can never be restored. Beware,
then, of storms, for wreck and ruin follow as surely as the passions rage."

CHAPTER II.

THE LOVERS.

IRENE DELANCY was a girl of quick, strong feelings, and an undisciplined will. Her mother died before she

reached her tenth year. From that time she was either at home under the care of domestics, or within the scarcely more
favorable surroundings of a boarding-school. She grew up beautiful and accomplished, but capricious and with a natural
impatience of control, that unwise reactions on the part of those who attempted to govern her in no degree tempered.

Hartley Emerson, as a boy, was self-willed and passionate, but possessed many fine qualities. A weak mother

yielded to his resolute struggles to have his own way, and so he acquired, at an early age, control over his own
movements. He went to college, studied hard, because he was ambitious, and graduated with honor. Law he chose as a
profession; and, in order to secure the highest advantages, entered the office of a distinguished attorney in the city of
New York, and gave to its study the best efforts of a clear, acute and logical mind. Self-reliant, proud, and in the habit
of reaching his ends by the nearest ways, he took his place at the bar with a promise of success rarely exceeded. From
his widowed mother, who died before he reached his majority, Hartley Emerson inherited a moderate fortune with
which to begin the world. Few young men started forward on their life-journey with so small a number of vices, or with
so spotless a moral character. The fine intellectual cast of his mind, and his devotion to study, lifted him above the baser
allurements of sense and kept his garments pure.

Such were Irene Delancy and Hartley Emerson—lovers and betrothed at the time we present them to our readers.

They met, two years before, at Saratoga, and drew together by a mutual attraction. She was the first to whom his heart
had bowed in homage; and until she looked upon him her pulse had never beat quicker at sight of a manly form.

Mr. Edmund Delancy, a gentleman of some wealth and advanced in years, saw no reason to interpose objections.

The family of Emerson occupied a social position equal with his own; and the young man's character and habits were
blameless. So far, the course of love ran smooth; and only three months intervened until the wedding-day.

The closer relation into which the minds of the lovers came after their betrothal and the removal of a degree of

deference and self-constraint, gave opportunity for the real character of each to show itself. Irene could not always
repress her willfulness and impatience of another's control; nor her lover hold a firm hand on quick-springing anger
when anything checked his purpose. Pride and adhesiveness of character, under such conditions of mind, were
dangerous foes to peace; and both were proud and tenacious.

The little break in the harmonious flow of their lives, noticed as occurring while the tempest raged, was one of many

such incidents; and it was in consequence of Mr. Delancy's observation of these unpromising features in their
intercourse that he spoke with so much earnestness about the irreparable ruin that followed in the wake of storms.

At least once a week Emerson left the city, and his books and cases, to spend a day with Irene in her tasteful

home; and sometimes he lingered there for two or three days at a time. It happened, almost invariably, that some harsh
notes jarred in the music of their lives during these pleasant seasons, and left on both their hearts a feeling of oppression,
or, worse, a brooding sense of injustice. Then there grew up between them an affected opposition and indifference, and
a kind of half-sportive, half-earnest wrangling about trifles, which too often grew serious.

Mr. Delancy saw this with a feeling of regret, and often interposed to restore some broken links in the chain of

harmony.

"You must be more conciliating, Irene," he would often say to his daughter. "Hartley is earnest and impulsive, and

you should yield to him gracefully, even when you do not always see and feel as he does. This constant opposition and
standing on your dignity about trifles is fretting both of you, and bodes evil in the future."

"Would you have me assent if he said black was white?" she answered to her father's remonstrance one day,

balancing her little head firmly and setting her lips together in a resolute way.

"It might be wiser to say nothing than to utter dissent, if, in so doing, both were made unhappy," returned her father.

"And so let him think me a passive fool?" she asked.

"No; a prudent girl, shaming his unreasonableness by her self-control."

"I have read somewhere," said Irene, "that all men are self-willed tyrants—the words do not apply to you, my

father, and so there is an exception to the rule." She smiled a tender smile as she looked into the face of a parent who
had ever been too indulgent. "But, from my experience with a lover, I can well believe the sentiment based in truth.
Hartley must have me think just as he thinks, and do what he wants me to do, or he gets ruffled. Now I don't expect,
when I am married, to sink into a mere nobody—to be my husband's echo and shadow; and the quicker I can make
Hartley comprehend this the better will it be for both of us. A few rufflings of his feathers now will teach him how to
keep them smooth and glossy in the time to come."

"You are in error, my child," replied Mr. Delancy, speaking very seriously. "Between those who love a cloud

should never interpose; and I pray you, Irene, as you value your peace and that of the man who is about to become
your husband, to be wise in the very beginning, and dissolve with a smile of affection every vapor that threatens a
coming storm. Keep the sky always bright."

"I will do everything that I can, father, to keep the sky of our lives always bright, except give up my own freedom

of thought and independence of action. A wife should not sink her individuality in that of her husband, any more than a
husband should sink his individuality in that of his wife. They are two equals, and should be content to remain equals.
There is no love in subordination."

Mr. Delancy sighed deeply: "Is argument of any avail here? Can words stir conviction in her mind?" He was silent

for a time, and then said—

"Better, Irene, that you stop where you are, and go through life alone, than venture upon marriage, in your state of

feeling, with a man like Hartley Emerson."

"Dear father, you are altogether too serious!" exclaimed the warm-hearted girl, putting her arms around his neck

and kissing him. "Hartley and I love each other too well to be made very unhappy by any little jar that takes place in the
first reciprocal movement of our lives. We shall soon come to understand each other, and then the harmonies will be
restored."

"The harmonies should never be lost, my child," returned Mr. Delancy. "In that lies the danger. When the enemy

gets into the citadel, who can say that he will ever be dislodged? There is no safety but in keeping him out."

"Still too serious, father," said Irene. "There is no danger to be feared from any formidable enemy. All these are

very little things."

"It is the little foxes that spoil the tender grapes, my daughter," Mr. Delancy replied; "and if the tender grapes are

spoiled, what hope is there in the time of vintage? Alas for us if in the later years the wine of life shall fail!"

There was so sad a tone in her father's voice, and so sad an expression on his face, that Irene was touched with a

new feeling toward him. She again put her arms around his neck and kissed him tenderly.

"Do not fear for us," she replied. "These are only little summer showers, that make the earth greener and the

flowers more beautiful. The sky is of a more heavenly azure when they pass away, and the sun shines more gloriously
than before."

But the father could not be satisfied, and answered—

"Beware of even summer showers, my darling. I have known fearful ravages to follow in their path—seen many a

goodly tree go down. After every storm, though the sky may be clearer, the earth upon which it fell has suffered some
loss which is a loss for ever. Begin, then, by conciliation and forbearance. Look past the external, which may seem at
times too exacting or imperative, and see only the true heart pulsing beneath—the true, brave heart, that would give to
every muscle the strength of steel for your protection if danger threatened. Can you not be satisfied with knowing that
you are loved—deeply, truly, tenderly? What more can a woman ask? Can you not wait until this love puts on its
rightly-adjusted exterior, as it assuredly will. It is yet mingled with self-love, and its action modified by impulse and
habit. Wait—wait—wait, my daughter. Bear and forbear for a time, as you value peace on earth and happiness in
heaven."

"I will try, father, for your sake, to guard myself," she answered.

"No, no, Irene. Not for my sake, but for the sake of right," returned Mr. Delancy.

They were sitting in the vine-covered portico that looked down, over a sloping lawn toward the river.

"There is Hartley now!" exclaimed Irene, as the form of her lover came suddenly into view, moving forward along

the road that approached from the landing, and she sprung forward and went rapidly down to meet him. There an
ardent kiss, a twining of arms, warmly spoken words and earnest gestures. Mr. Delancy looked at them as they stood
fondly together, and sighed. He could not help it, for he knew there was trouble before them. After standing and talking
for a short time, they began moving toward the house, but paused at every few paces—sometimes to admire a
picturesque view—sometimes to listen one to the other and respond to pleasant sentiments—and sometimes in fond
dispute. This was Mr. Delancy's reading of their actions and gestures, as he sat looking at and observing them closely.

A little way from the path by which they were advancing toward the house was a rustic arbor, so placed as to

command a fine sweep of river from one line of view and West Point from another. Irene paused and made a motion of
her hand toward this arbor, as if she wished to go there; but Hartley looked to the house and plainly signified a wish to
go there first. At this Irene pulled him gently toward the arbor; he resisted, and she drew upon his arm more resolutely,
when, planting his feet firmly, he stood like a rock. Still she urged and still he declined going in that direction. It was play
at first, but Mr. Delancy saw that it was growing to be earnest. A few moments longer, and he saw Irene separate from
Hartley and move toward the arbor; at the same time the young man came forward in the direction of the house. Mr.
Delancy, as he stepped from the portico to meet him, noticed that his color was heightened and his eyes unusually
bright.

"What's the matter with that self-willed girl of mine?" he asked, as he took the hand of Emerson, affecting a

lightness of tone that did not correspond with his real feelings.

"Oh, nothing serious," the young man replied. "She's only in a little pet because I wouldn't go with her to the arbor

before I paid my respects to you."

"She's a spoiled little puss," said the father, in a fond yet serious way, "and you'll have to humor her a little at first,

Hartley. She never had the wise discipline of a mother, and so has grown up unused to that salutary control which is so
necessary for young persons. But she has a warm, true heart and pure principles; and these are the foundation-stones
on which to build the temple of happiness."

"Don't fear but that it will be all right between us. I love her too well to let any flitting humors affect me."

He stepped upon the portico as he spoke and sat down. Irene had before this reached the arbor and taken a seat

there. Mr. Delancy could do no less than resume the chair from which he had arisen on the young man's approach. In
looking into Hartley's face he noticed a resolute expression about his mouth. For nearly ten minutes they sat and talked,
Irene remaining alone in the arbor. Mr. Delancy then said, in a pleasant off-handed way,

"Come, Hartley, you have punished her long enough. I don't like to see you even play at disagreement."

He did not seem to notice the remark, but started a subject of conversation that it was almost impossible to dismiss

for the next ten minutes. Then he stepped down from the portico, and was moving leisurely toward the arbor when he
perceived that Irene had already left it and was returning by another path. So he came back and seated himself again, to
await her approach. But, instead of joining him, she passed round the house and entered on the opposite side. For
several minutes he sat, expecting every instant to see her come out on the portico, but she did not make her
appearance.

It was early in the afternoon. Hartley, affecting not to notice the absence of Irene, kept up an animated

conversation with Mr. Delancy. A whole hour went by, and still the young lady was absent. Suddenly starting, up, at the
end of this time, Hartley exclaimed—

"As I live, there comes the boat! and I must be in New York to-night."

"Stay," said Mr. Delancy, "until I call Irene."

"I can't linger for a moment, sir. It will take quick walking to reach the landing by the time the boat is there." The

young man spoke hurriedly, shook hands with Mr. Delancy, and then sprung away, moving at a rapid pace.

"What's the matter, father? Where is Hartley going?" exclaimed Irene, coming out into the portico and grasping her

father's arm. Her face was pale and her lips trembled.

"He is going to New York," relied Mr. Delancy.

"To New York!" She looked almost frightened.

"Yes. The boat is coming, and he says that he must be in the city to-night."

Irene sat down, looking pale and troubled.

"Why have you remained away from Hartley ever since his arrival?" asked Mr. Delancy, fixing his eyes upon Irene

and evincing some displeasure.

Irene did not answer, but her father saw the color coming back to her face.

"I think, from his manner, that he was hurt by your singular treatment. What possessed you to do so?"

"Because I was not pleased with him," said Irene. Her voice was now steady.

"Why not?"

"I wished him to go to the arbor."

"He was your guest, and, in simple courtesy, if there was no other motive, you should have let his wishes govern

your movements," Mr. Delancy replied.

"He is always opposing me!" said Irene, giving way to a flood of tears and weeping for a time bitterly.

"It is not at all unlikely, my daughter," replied Mr. Delancy, after the tears began to flow less freely, "that Hartley is

now saying the same thing of you, and treasuring up bitter things in his heart. I have no idea that any business calls him
to New York to-night."

"Nor I. He takes this means to punish me," said Irene.

"Don't take that for granted. Your conduct has blinded him, and he is acting now from blind impulse. Before he is

half-way to New York he will regret this hasty step as sincerely as I trust you are already regretting its occasion."

Irene did not reply.

"I did not think," he resumed, "that my late earnest remonstrance would have so soon received an illustration like

this. But it may be as well. Trifles light as air have many times proved the beginning of life-longs separations between
friends and lovers who possessed all the substantial qualities for a life-long and happy companionship. Oh, my daughter,
beware! beware of these little beginnings of discord. How easy would it have been for you to have yielded to Hartley's
wishes!—how hard will it to endure the pain that must now be suffered! And remember that you do not suffer alone;
your conduct has made him an equal sufferer. He came up all the way from the city full of sweet anticipations. It was for
your sake that he came; and love pictured you as embodying all attractions. But how has he found you? Ah, my
daughter, your caprice has wounded the heart that turned to you for love. He came in joy, but goes back in sorrow."

Irene went up to her chamber, feeling sadder than she had ever felt in her life; yet, mingling, with her sadness and

self-reproaches, were complaining thoughts of her lover. For a little half-playful pettishness was she to be visited with a
punishment like this? If he had really loved her—so she queried—would he have flung himself away after this hasty
fashion? Pride came to her aid in the conflict of feeling, and gave her self-control and endurance. At tea-time she met
her father, and surprised him with her calm, almost cheerful, aspect. But his glance was too keen not to penetrate the
disguise. After tea, she sat reading—or at least affecting to read—in the portico, until the evening shadows came down,
and then she retired to her chamber.

Not many hours of sleep brought forgetfulness of suffering through the night that followed. Sometimes the unhappy

girl heaped mountains of reproaches upon her own head; and sometimes pride and indignation, gaining rule in her heart,
would whisper self-justification, and throw the weight of responsibility upon her lover.

Her pale face and troubled eyes revealed too plainly, on the next morning, the conflict through which she had

passed.

"Write him a letter of apology or explanation," said Mr. Delancy.

But Irene was not in a state of mind for this. Pride came whispering too many humiliating objections in her ear.

Morning passed, and in the early hours of the afternoon, when the New York boat usually came up the river, she was
out on the portico watching for its appearance. Hope whispered that, repenting of his hasty return on the day before,
her lover was now hurrying back to meet her. At last the white hull of the boat came gliding into view, and in less than
half an hour it was at the landing. Then it moved on its course again. Almost to a second of time had Irene learned to
calculate the minutes it required for Hartley to make the distance between the landing and the nearest point in the road
where his form could meet her view. She held her breath in eager expectation as that moment of time approached. It
came—it passed; the white spot in the road, where his dark form first revealed itself, was touched by no obscuring
shadow. For more than ten minutes Irene sat motionless, gazing still toward that point; then, sighing deeply, she arose
and went up to her room, from which she did not come down until summoned to join her father at tea.

The next day passed as this had done, and so did the next. Hartley neither came nor sent a message of any kind.

The maiden's heart began to fail. Grief and fear took the place of accusation and self-reproach. What if he had left her
for ever! The thought made her heart shiver as if an icy wind had passed over it. Two or three times she took up her
pen to write him a few words and entreat him to come back to her again. But she could form no sentences against
which pride did not come with strong objection; and so she suffered on, and made no sign.

A whole week at last intervened. Then the enduring heart began to grow stronger to bear, and, in self-protection,

to put on sterner moods. Hers was not a spirit to yield weakly in any struggle. She was formed for endurance, pride and
self-reliance giving her strength above common natures. But this did not really lessen her suffering, for she was not only
capable of deep affection, but really loved Hartley almost as her own life; and the thought of losing him, whenever it
grew distinct, filled her with terrible anguish.

With pain her father saw the color leave her cheeks, her eyes grow fixed and dreamy, and her lips shrink from their

full outline.

"Write to Hartley," he said to her one day, after a week had passed.

"Never!" was her quick, firm, almost sharply uttered response; "I would die first!"

"But, my daughter—"

"Father," she interrupted him, two bright spots suddenly burning on her cheeks, "don't, I pray you, urge me on this

point. I have courage enough to break, but I will not bend. I gave him no offence. What right has he to assume that I
was not engaged in domestic duties while he sat talking with you? He said that he had an engagement in New York.
Very well; there was a sufficient reason for his sudden departure; and I accept the reason. But why does he remain
away? If simply because I preferred a seat in the arbor to one in the portico, why, the whole thing is so unmanly, that I
can have no patience with it. Write to him, and humor a whim like this! No, no—Irene Delancy is not made of the right
stuff. He went from me, and he must return again. I cannot go to him. Maiden modesty and pride forbid. And so I shall
remain silent and passive, if my heart breaks."

It was in the afternoon, and they were sitting in the portico, where, at this hour, Irene might have been found every

day for the past week. The boat from New York came in sight as she closed the last sentence. She saw it—for her
eyes were on the look-out—the moment it turned the distant point of land that hid the river beyond. Mr. Delancy also
observed the boat. Its appearance was an incident of sufficient importance, taking things as they were, to check the
conversation, which was far from being satisfactory on either side.

The figure of Irene was half buried in a deep cushioned chair, which had been wheeled out upon the portico, and

now her small, slender form seemed to shrink farther back among the cushions, and she sat as motionless as one asleep.
Steadily onward came the boat, throwing backward her dusky trail and lashing with her great revolving wheels the quiet
waters into foamy turbulence—onward, until the dark crowd of human forms could be seen upon her decks; then,
turning sharply, she was lost to view behind a bank of forest trees. Ten minutes more, and the shriek of escaping steam
was heard as she stopped her ponderous machinery at the landing.

From that time Irene almost held her breath, as so she counted the moments that must elapse before Hartley could

reach the point of view in the road that led up from the river, should he have been a passenger in the steamboat. The
number was fully told, but it was to-day as yesterday. There was no sign of his coming. And so the eyelids, weary with
vain expectation, drooped heavily over the dimming eyes. But she had not stirred, nor shown a sign of feeling. A little
while she sat with her long lashes shading her pale cheeks; then she slowly raised them and looked out toward the river
again. What a quick start she gave! Did her eyes deceive her? No, it was Hartley, just in the spot she had looked to see
him only a minute or two before. But how slowly he moved, and with what a weary step! and, even at this long
distance, his face looked white against the wavy masses of his dark-brown hair.

Irene started up with an exclamation, stood as if in doubt for a moment, then, springing from the portico, she went

flying to meet him, as swiftly as if moving on winged feet. All the forces of her ardent, impulsive nature were bearing her
forward. There was no remembrance of coldness or imagined wrong—pride did not even struggle to lift its head—love
conquered everything. The young man stood still, from weariness or surprise, ere she reached him. As she drew near,
Irene saw that his face was not only pale, but thin and wasted.

"Oh, Hartley! dear Hartley!" came almost wildly from her lips, as she flung her arms around his neck, and kissed

him over and over again, on lips, cheeks and brow, with an ardor and tenderness that no maiden delicacy could
restrain. "Have you been sick, or hurt? Why are you so pale, darling?"

"I have been ill for a week—ever since I was last here," the young man replied, speaking in a slow, tremulous

voice.

"And I knew it not!" Tears were glittering in her eyes and pressing out in great pearly beads from between the

fringing lashes. "Why did you not send for me, Hartley?"

And she laid her small hands upon each side of his face, as you have seen a mother press the cheeks of her child,

and looked up tenderly into his love-beaming eyes.

"But come, dear," she added, removing her hands from his face and drawing her arm within his—not to lean on,

but to offer support. "My father, who has, with me, suffered great anxiety on your account, is waiting your arrival at the
house."

Then, with slow steps, they moved along the upward sloping way, crowding the moments with loving words.

And so the storm passed, and the sun came out again in the firmament of their souls. But looked he down on no

tempest-marks? Had not the ruthless tread of passion marred the earth's fair surface? Were no goodly trees uptorn, or
clinging vines wrenched from their support? Alas! was there ever a storm that did not leave some ruined hope behind?
ever a storm that did not strew the sea with wrecks or mar the earth's fair beauty?

As when the pain of a crushed limb ceases there comes to the sufferer a sense of delicious ease, so, after the storm

had passed, the lovers sat in the warm sunshine and dreamed of unclouded happiness in the future. But in the week that
Hartley spent with his betrothed were revealed to their eyes, many times, desolate places where flowers had been; and
their hearts grew sad as they turned their eyes away, and sighed for hopes departed, faith shaken, and untroubled
confidence in each other for the future before them, for ever gone.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN.

IN alternate storm and sunshine their lives passed on, until the appointed day arrived that was to see them bound,

not by the graceful true-lovers' knot, which either might untie, but by a chain light as downy fetters if borne in mutual
love, and galling as ponderous iron links, if heart answered not heart and the chafing spirit struggled to get free.

Hartley Emerson loved truly the beautiful, talented and affectionate, but badly-disciplined, quick-tempered, self-

willed girl he had chosen for a wife; and Irene Delancy would have gone to prison and to death for the sake of the man
to whom she had yielded up the rich treasures of her young heart. In both cases the great drawback to happiness was
the absence of self-discipline, self-denial and self-conquest. They could overcome difficulties, brave danger, set the
world at defiance, if need be, for each other, and not a coward nerve give way; but when pride and passion came
between them, each was a child in weakness and blind self-will. Unfortunately, persistence of character was strong in
both. They were of such stuff as martyrs were made of in the fiery times of power and persecution.

A brighter, purer morning than that on which their marriage vows were said the year had not given to the smiling

earth. Clear and softly blue as the eye of childhood bent the summer sky above them. There was not a cloud in all the
tranquil heavens to give suggestion of dreary days to come or to wave a sign of warning. The blithe birds sung their
matins amid the branches that hung their leafy drapery around and above Irene's windows, in seeming echoes to the
songs love was singing in her heart. Nature put on the loveliest attire in all her ample wardrobe, and decked herself with
coronals and wreaths of flowers that loaded the air with sweetness.

"May your lives flow together like two pure streams that meet in the same valley, and as bright a sky bend always

over you as gives its serene promise for to-day."

Thus spoke the minister as the ceremonials closed that wrought the external bond of union between them. His

words were uttered with feeling and solemnity; for marriage, in his eyes, was no light thing. He had seen too many sad
hearts struggling in chains that only death could break, ever to regard marriage with other than sober thoughts that went
questioning away into the future.

The "amen" of Mr. Delancy was not audibly spoken, but it was deep-voiced in his heart.

There was to be a wedding-tour of a few weeks, and then the young couple were to take possession of a new

home in the city, Which Mr. Emerson had prepared for his bride. The earliest boat that came up from New York was
to bears the party to Albany, Saratoga being the first point of their destination.

After the closing of the marriage ceremony some two or three hours passed before the time of departure came.

The warm congratulations were followed by a gay, festive scene, in which glad young hearts had a merry-making time.
How beautiful the bride looked! and how proudly the gaze of her newly-installed husband turned ever and ever toward
her, move which way she would among her maidens, as if she were a magnet to his eyes. He was standing in the portico
that looked out upon the distant river, about an hour after the wedding, talking with one of the bridesmaids, when the
latter, pointing to the sky, said, laughing—

"There comes your fate."

Emerson's eyes followed the direction of her finger.

"You speak in riddles," he replied, looking back into the maiden's face. "What do you see?"

"A little white blemish on the deepening azure," was answered. "There it lies, just over that stately horse-chestnut,

whose branches arch themselves into the outline of a great cathedral window."

"A scarcely perceptible cloud?"

"Yes, no bigger than a hand; and just below it is another."

"I see; and yet you still propound a riddle. What has that cloud to do with my fate?"

"You know the old superstition connected with wedding-days?"

"What?"

"That as the aspect of the day is, so will the wedded life be."

"Ours, then, is full of promise. There has been no fairer day than this," said the young man.

"Yet many a day that opened as bright and cloudless has sobbed itself away in tears."

"True; and it may be so again. But I am no believer in signs."

"Nor I," said the young lady, again laughing.

The bride came up at this moment and, hearing the remark of her young husband, said, as she drew her arm within

his—

"What about signs, Hartley?"

"Miss Carman has just reminded me of the superstition about wedding-days, as typical of life."

"Oh yes, I remember," said Irene, smiling. "If the day opens clear, then becomes cloudy, and goes out in storm,

there will be happiness in the beginning, but sorrow at the close; but if clouds and rain herald its awakening, then pass
over and leave the sky blue and sunny, there will be trouble at first, but smiling peace as life progresses and declines.
Our sky is bright as heart could wish." And the bride looked up into the deep blue ether.

Miss Carman laid one hand upon her arm and with the other pointed lower down, almost upon the horizon's edge,

saying, in a tone of mock solemnity—

"As I said to Mr. Emerson, so I now say to you—There comes our fate."

"You don't call that the herald of an approaching storm?"

"Weatherwise people say," answered the maiden, "that a sky without a cloud is soon followed by stormy weather.

Since morning until now there has not a cloud been seen."'

"Weatherwise people and almanac-makers speak very oracularly, but the day of auguries and signs is over,"

replied Irene.

"Philosophy," said Mr. Emerson, "is beginning to find reasons in the nature of things for results that once seemed

only accidental, yet followed with remarkable certainty the same phenomena. It discovers a relation of cause and effect
where ignorance only recognizes some power working in the dark."

"So you pass me over to the side of ignorance!" Irene spoke in a tone that Hartley's ear recognized too well. His

remark had touched her pride.

"Not by any means," he answered quickly, eager to do away the impression. "Not by any means," he repeated.

"The day of mere auguries, omens and signs is over. Whatever natural phenomena appear are dependent on natural
causes, and men of science are beginning to study the so-called superstitions of farmers and seamen, to find out, if
possible, the philosophical elucidation. Already a number of curious results have followed investigation in this field."

Irene leaned on his arm still, but she did not respond. A little cloud had come up and lay just upon the verge of her

soul's horizon. Her husband knew that it was there; and this knowledge caused a cloud to dim also the clear azure of his
mind. There was a singular correspondence between their mental sky and the fair cerulean without.

Fearing to pursue the theme on which they were conversing, lest some unwitting words might shadow still further

the mind of Irene, Emerson changed the subject, and was, to all appearance, successful in dispelling the little cloud.

The hour came, at length, when the bridal party must leave. After a tender, tearful partings with her father, Irene

turned her steps away from the home of her childhood into a new path, that would lead her out into the world, where so
many thousands upon thousands, who saw only a way of velvet softness before them, have cut their tended feet upon
flinty rocks, even to the verve end of their tearful journey. Tightly and long did Mr. Delancy hold his child to his heart,
and when his last kiss was given and his fervent "God give you a happy life, my daughter!" said, he gazed after her
departing form with eyes front which manly firmness could not hold back the tears.

No one knew better than Mr. Delancy the perils that lay before his daughter. That storms would darken her sky

and desolate her heart, he had too good reason to fear. His hope for her lay beyond the summer-time of life, when,
chastened by suffering and subdued by experience, a tranquil autumn would crown her soul with blessings that might
have been earlier enjoyed. He was not superstitious, and yet it was with a feeling of concern that he saw the white and
golden clouds gathering like enchanted land along the horizon, and piling themselves up, one above another, as if in
sport, building castles and towers that soon dissolved, changing away into fantastic forms, in which the eye could see no
meaning; and when, at last, his ear caught a far-distant sound that jarred the air, a sudden pain shot through his heart.

"On any other day but this!" he sighed to himself, turning from the window at which he was standing and walking

restlessly the floor for several minutes, lost in a sad, dreamy reverie.

Like something instinct with life the stately steamer, quivering with every stroke of her iron heart, swept along the

gleaming river on her upward passage, bearing to their destination her freight of human souls. Among theme was our
bridal party, which, as the day was so clear and beautiful, was gathered upon the upper deck. As Irene's eyes turned
from the closing vision of her father's beautiful home, where the first cycle of her life had recorded its golden hours, she
said, with a sigh, speaking to one of her companions—

"Farewell, Ivy Cliff! I shall return to you again, but not the same being I was when I left your pleasant scenes this

morning."

"A happier being I trust," replied Miss Carman, one of her bridemaids.

Rose Carman was a young friend, residing in the neighborhood of her father, to whom Irene was tenderly attached.

"Something here says no." And Irene, bending toward Miss Carman, pressed one of her hands against her bosom.

"The weakness of an hour like this," answered her friend with an assuring smile. "It will pass away like the morning

cloud and the early dew."

Mr. Emerson noticed the shade upon the face of his bride, and drawing near to her, said, tenderly—

"I can forgive you a sigh for the past, Irene. Ivy Cliff is a lovely spot, and your home has been all that a maiden's

heart could desire. It would be strange, indeed, if the chords that have so long bound you there did not pull at your
heart in parting."

Irene did not answer, but let her eyes turn backward with a pensive almost longing glance toward the spot where

lay hidden among the distant trees the home of her early years. A deep shadow had suddenly fallen upon her spirits.
Whence it came she knew not and asked not; but with the shadow was a dim foreboding of evil.

There was tact and delicacy enough in the companions of Irene to lead them to withdraw observation and to

withhold further remarks until she could recover the self-possession she had lost. This came back in a little while, when,
with an effort, she put on the light, easy manner so natural to her.

"Looking at the signs?" said one of the party, half an hour afterward, as she saw the eyes of Irene ranging along the

sky, where clouds were now seen towering up in steep masses, like distant mountains.

"If I were a believer of signs," replied Irene, placing her arm within that of the maiden who had addressed her, and

drawing her partly aside, "I might feel sober at this portent. But I am not. Still, sign or no sign, I trust we are not going to
have a storm. It would greatly mar our pleasure."

But long ere the boat reached Albany, rain began to fall, accompanied by lightning and thunder; and soon the

clouds were dissolving in a mimic deluge. Hour after hour, the wind and rain and lightning held fierce revelry, and not
until near the completion of the voyage did the clouds hold back their watery treasures, and the sunbeams force
themselves through the storm's dark barriers.

When the stars came out that evening, studding the heavens with light, there was no obscuring spot on all the

o'erarching sky.

CHAPTER IV.

UNDER THE CLOUD.

THE wedding party was to spend a week at Saratoga, and it was now the third day since its arrival. The time had

passed pleasantly, or wearily, according to the state of mind or social habits and resources of the individual. The bride,
it was remarked by some of the party, seemed dull; and Rose Carman, who knew her friend better, perhaps, than any
other individual in the company, and kept her under close observation, was concerned to notice an occasional curtness
of manner toward her husband, that was evidently not relished. Something had already transpired to jar the chords so
lately attuned to harmony.

After dinner a ride was proposed by one of the company. Emerson responded favorably, but Irene was indifferent.

He urged her, and she gave an evidently reluctant consent. While the gentlemen went to make arrangement for
carriages, the ladies retired to their rooms. Miss Carman accompanied the bride. She had noticed her manner, and felt
slightly troubled at her state of mind, knowing, as she did, her impulsive character and blind self-will when excited by
opposition.

"I don't want to ride to-day!" exclaimed Irene, throwing herself int...